


you should take it personally, babe, this just ain't your story

by GStK



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Trans Character, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22277890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GStK/pseuds/GStK
Summary: eventually, you sort of get used to it. it feels awful, you never like it, but you get used to it, in ways that sort of scare you.
Relationships: Belial/Lucilius (Granblue Fantasy), Lucifer/Sandalphon (Granblue Fantasy), Lucilius/Lucio (Granblue Fantasy)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 97





	1. jegudiel

**Author's Note:**

> This work features trans character physicality and may fuel dysphoria (though not intended). Please be safe!

The first thing he feels when he sees his creator is disgust.

He is a new essence unto the world but he is already imbued with many things -- hands to see, eyes to take flight, wings to wreak doubt. His pulse is one beat off, seven to discord. The core next to his own is a perfect symphony.

The core next to him -- ha. Vestigial thoughts give way to the taste of something acrid on his new tongue. A twin? A brother? It is not so. Not with the way their maker studies the white-haired boy with such unadulterated affection.

"You," the maker says to his better half, "Are Lucifer."

"Lucifer," repeats the bright spot in the room. His light reaches out and bends around his darkness.

The maker turns to him last. Last, last. His blood broils. "And you," he says with a disinterested tone of voice, "Are Jedugiel."

He licks his lips and tries the sound out on his tongue. Then, he shakes his head. "I don't think so."

The maker raises a brow.

"It doesn't suit me," he defies. The whisper on the wind that catches him, coming from the darkened corners of the room -- "Belial. That will do."

He is half the size of his maker and he is studied with a steely gaze. The man tightens his grip on his lance. He wonders if his brief existence will be rent from the world.

He knows better. He is cunning, after all.

"Belial," the maker acknowledges, leaning down to meet his eyes. "I am Lucilius, and you will remember my name."

Christened, Belial grins. "We'll see if it's worth remembering."

Lucifer ruffles his feathers nervously.

* * *

It is the beginning.

He is assigned subordinate to Lucifer. Their purposes are cemented quickly, like lines written on a research report. Lucifer is to become the supreme primarch of the skies, of evolution, of the skies down below. Belial is -- something. He’s the afterthought, the down-and-dirty, the cunning to shape the world where Lucifer will rest his laurels.

What pumps his blood is defiance and a need to _rebel_. He subverts orders eagerly, blatantly, the thrill of punishment sending his blood racing fast. Each error teaches him something the maker will not tell him. A lance through the heart tells him of their regenerative properties. A stomp at the back of his spine, crude hands ripping out his fledgling wings, entertains the limits of his consciousness and how soon he can bounce back. The rest of his knowledge comes from insatiable experimentation, opening his wings to the furious winds of Canaan and being blasted from all sides.

He is ripped out of his reverie in the halls one day and shoved against the wall. There are many rooms to Canaan, but the maker keeps his corner empty. There will be more and there will be others.

For now, those angry eyes exist for him alone.

“What do you think you are doing?” the maker growls.

Belial, effervescent, shrugs. His wings give a patchy flourish, still not fully recovered from his trip outside. “I’m doing what you told me.”

“I told you to accompany Lucifer. Nothing more.”

“Nothing less,” he answers back snidely. The maker above him settles into his usual stony silence. Where Lucifer would worry and hasten to apologise, Belial does not resort to groveling. “If you haven’t noticed, he’s not going anywhere. All he does is sit in the garden and look at the plants.”

“He is learning. You are not helping him.”

“How do you propose I help someone studying the dew on a blade of grass, dear Creator?”

The maker always stiffens when he says it like that. Belial braces for the whack of the broad side of his lance, but the maker takes a hiss of a breath -- and exhales.

“If you will not satiate his curiosity,” the man spits, as though Belial has already failed in his purpose, “You will fight.”

“Really?” Combat -- now _that_ sounds exciting. It’s new and unexplored territory.

“Lucifer will be equipped and ready to battle you in the morning,” the maker mutters, already turning away with a hand at his chin. “Fashion your own weapon.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then perish.”

The maker stalks off, heels clicking against the stone floor. The dust in their little corner of Canaan seems to glow a little brighter.

Belial chuckles to himself.

* * *

Lucifer stands across the peaceful lawn, looking out of place with three thin swords at his side. He keeps glancing at the maker, who nods every time their eyes connect. He is unsure.

Belial will make him bleed.

“I believe I told you to make your own weapon,” the maker challenges from across the way, already in Lucifer’s corner. Belial flips the lance in hand impatiently. “Not to make a thief of yourself.”

“I did!” Belial protests. He flips the spear down and pulls at the purple feathers near the tip. “I decorated it.”

“Are those… your own feathers?” Lucifer asks quietly.

“Sure are, Lucy. Glued them on myself.” 

‘Lucy’ tilts his head.

“With…?”

“My blood. Duh. Don’t you know how sticky that stuff gets?”

“Enough,” the maker decrees. He gives a flick of his wrist and a barrier forms around them, a circle to denote their own battlefield. “Disarm the other but do not deal a fatal blow. That will come later.”

“But what if I really want to?” Belial asks.

“Lucifer, you may kill him.”

Lucifer doesn’t. He’s unwieldy, still not used to holding a blade or even which one to choose. He doesn’t even factor flight into the occasion and visibly jumps when Belial takes to the air.

Belial runs him straight through. Lucifer should be down for any number of minutes, but he learns, with a sort of fascinated horror, how quickly the _supreme primarch_ recovers from his wounds. It’s fast -- much faster than him.

Belial pins him to the wall of the barrier. Lucifer coughs up blood. The maker dismisses the circle, lips thinning when his eyes connect with Belial’s.

He does not rush over to Lucifer’s side.

“I cannot-- begin to keep up,” Lucifer confesses between coughs. Belial offers him a hand, after he’s pulled the lance out and decorated Lucifer with another fatal wound. It’s sealed in seconds. When they are both on equal footing, Lucifer wraps his arms around him. “I do not wish to fight you.”

“Why’s that, Lucy?” Belial asks, a little hollow. It feels strange to be touched. His haunches are up, ready for fingers to stab through him and drag out his core. But they never come. “Are you scared?”

“I am scared. I don’t want to hurt my friends.”

“... what’s that word mean?”

Lucifer pulls back and matches Belial’s puzzled expression with his own. The maker is suspiciously silent.

“Lucilius taught it to me. It is used to denote someone you love. He called me his friend, and I the same. Did he not…?”

Belial grins. “Nope.”

“... Lucilius,” Lucifer says, voice dripping in-- disappointment? Oh, the way the maker flinches. It’s delicious. “Why would you not teach this word to Belial?”

After some troubled silence, the maker grumbles, “He has no need of it.”

“But you told me everyone has need of friends.”

“Not Belial,” the maker denies. He beckons Lucifer to him, the primarch quickly hugging him at the waist. The maker sweeps him into his robes. “Come, Lucifer. We should document these results.

Belial is left alone with bloodstained grass and a smile all to himself.

The sparking, tight emotion in his chest pulls him in all directions. He learns, later, that this feeling is called ‘anger.’

* * *

“Say, Mickey. What’s a friend?”

The red girl pauses. Her existence has taught Belial a lot of things: about men, about women, about desire and deceit. Her face is coloured by red whenever Belial gets close, and she holds her hands to her budding chest.

“It’s someone you love,” she answers, brows knit together. “Why do you ask? Should you not know this already, Belial?”

“Oh, I was never told,” Belial answers innocently, dismissively. It’s so easy to tug at Michael’s strings and play her like a lyre. She looks at him so piteously, in the way he hates the most. “I heard Lucifer say it to our creator and then he said it to you. So I was wondering!”

“Belial,” Michael sighs, taking a step towards him… hesitating, afterwards. She judges distances so carefully. She learns so slowly, by endless trial and error. Two steps forward and five steps back. “You are our friend. Make no mistake. I’m not certain the reason Lucilius would not tell you this, but… I know what I say to be true.”

“You think he would’ve told me by now,” Belial says, relaxing onto Michael’s bed. He looks up at the springtime flowers decorating the room. It belies the score of weapons scattered all about the space.

“There must be a reason. Shall I ask him for you?”

“Do you think he would give you an honest answer?”

“I…”

“You’re so sweet, Mickey,” Belial says with a smile. He looks at her and she is as red as a rose! “It’s really cute. I appreciate the thought.”

“He-- he at least told you your purpose, right?” she stammers.

“Mhmmmm. I’m Lucifer’s stepping stone to become the greatest being in existence.”

“-- I don’t think that’s true.”

“For his sake, I hope not!” Belial bellows, and then he laughs, and it is not entirely clear if he means the maker or Lucifer. Both, maybe.

* * *

Their numbers multiply and the other astrals begin to take notice. His underlings (for what better word is there for those that came after) know not what to call them, but Belial does. Belial learns their names and forgets soon after. He reads the books that their creator leaves carelessly on his research table when sleep overcomes him and he collapses in a heap.

The maker wakes with a start, once, to Belial humming thoughtfully over his latest book. He lets out a sleep-addled grunt and tries to snatch the tome from Belial’s hands. Belial is faster and floats away.

“A whole council, huh?” he muses, turning the page. “And you’re making weapons to rule the world? Or are we supposed to be the swords that pierce the heavens and bring the Big Guy down?”

“You’re rambling about nonsense. You understand nothing,” the maker scowls. He makes another grab for the book and this time, Belial lets him have it. By the time he folds his wings and stands on solid ground, the maker is glaring at him. They are nearly eye-to-eye, with little centimetres between them. Who is the lesser, now?

“You’re not the leader and you’re not God, no matter what you want us to think,” Belial says. He puts a hand on his hip and a finger to his chin. “Still. It’s a little cruel to make us and then let us go on thinking we’re people, huh? If you just told us from the beginning, you wouldn’t have gotten our hopes up. Lucifer is going to be _crushed_ when he hears about this.”

“You will not breathe a word of this,” the maker says, lit by an incensed fire. Belial rolls his hand through the air.

“And what’s to stop me? You could kill me, but I’d still make sure they find out. I am ‘cunning,’ after all.” Belial smirks. “I saw my design plans. Good stuff.”

“What’s to stop you?” the maker echoes, and Belial tries not to shiver in anticipation under his stare. Yes. Yes. Let that hatred ram hot and thick through him. The maker takes a sudden break from their staring contest, turns away, scattering papers on his desk. “You are dissatisfied with the purpose assigned to you, no?”

Now they’re talking. “Give me something new. Something worthwhile.”

“You were always meant to be under foot.”

“As long as it’s not Lucifer’s.”

His maker sneers. Belial offers a thin smile.

“Then under mine,” says the maker, already turning ‘round and beginning to stalk away. “Prepare yourself. I will not give you the same mercy.”

And yet, he does. To give Belial a reason to be outside of existing as an extension of Lucifer -- what more could any angel ask for?

* * *

The books are hard. The work is harder. The maker tasks Belial with cleaning up every mess and abomination that guests his catalogue of failures. And he fails a great many times. More experiments come up with ghastly inhumanities than new minds to join their ranks.

While the maker is humming over his latest success, decorating a girl’s hair with orange and her eyes with red, Belial wipes his hands on his trousers. The murky black ruins them in an instant. By now, the maker is long used to it.

“How many weapons do you need?”

“Enough,” the maker says vaguely. “Contingency plans are a must. I have even thought of tasking Lucifer with his own.”

“You’re gonna let him make something?”

A grunt. “Does it concern you, Belial?”

“Oh, it concerns me very much.” Belial strolls over and brushes aside a lock of the girl’s hair. She stares up at him, wide, unseeing. Without a core, it’s just a mass of flesh and some sinewy muscles. “You talk about all these extra plans and precautions, but you’re pouring all of your time into one thing.”

“Who are you to question me?”

“I’m the only one to question you.”

The maker scoffs. “I am bothered enough by the other researchers. And that man.”

Beelzebub. Belial licks his lips. He still remembers that man’s smoky taste, the way his eyes pierced and the harsh way he grabbed the front of Belial’s shirt. “Aren’t you partners?”

“Aren’t you?”

“I can’t believe you’d insinuate that! I don’t have any friends, Dear Creator. You made me that way.”

“Not friends,” the maker says, fixing one of the girl’s wings into place. The sick sound of bone snapping into place-- it sends a tingle through him. The rawer sounds they create down here inspire him, in a way. "Lovers."

To hide that he does not know what the word means would be pointless. Belial straightens. "Isn't that the same thing?"

"Then it was a lie," the maker judges. He returns to his work.

"Hey. At least answer me."

"Why not go find the answer yourself?" the maker says, waving a dismissive hand to his library.

"I have. It's not there," he says, because he has run his finger over every page and come up empty for many things. The maker has calculations aplenty, recipes for chaos, but words and history? They seem to mean little.

The man who made him is without answer, too, until Belial takes his wrist in hand. The completely unfettered gaze that scrolls up to him… the brittle bones he feels beneath his fingers. The barely-there pulse. Belial catalogues this special feeling for his own research, later.

"Answer me," says Belial.

That is his last breath for a while, after a thousand gs crash into him and send his bones shattering against the wall.

* * *

"Lovers," Lucifer repeats.

Belial itches at his neck across the table.

"I confess I have not heard the word either," Lucifer says regretfully. He looks sad at having failed Belial -- sad, but not unbearably so. He would never deviate so much for one person. Especially not Belial.

"That so," he mutters. His tea is untouched. Lucifer's fascinations don't touch him.

"But perhaps… yes," Lucifer gives a plain nod of his head. "Lucilius once told me a story of a love greater than love."

Belial uncrosses his legs and leans forward in his chair. Lucifer's face rings a bit guilty.

"Sure he won't get mad at you for telling me?"

"A name is all I can give you. Not the experience. But." A pause, and then: "Lucilius said as much: we are equals."

Belial holds out his hand. Lucifer takes it.

"The name?" Belial presses.

"I was told a story of a man called Adam."

* * *

Adam, Adam, Adam. He runs through the council's books first -- they consider him warily, but he's just a harmless beast. Just a toy with a cogwheel brain.

He comes up empty-handed. For all their documented history, they go no further back than the Split. And there is a further back.

The maker's library hosts nothing particularly damning either. He flips through reports with one hand and reads tomes with the other. All he gets is a thoughtless pat on the head.

Just the touch leaves him sleepless for days, something acrid in his mouth.

The other angels have their collection of books, and Lucifer has foreign scrolls from beneath the clouds. He peels through them with freedom but there is nothing. No Adam, no lovers, no beginning.

One place left to look.

A hundred seals come away at the touch of his hand. He's hauled the maker to bed a thousand times; these walls know him. This time he is without wisdom incarnate in his arms, and yet the black curtains peel back and the heavy weight of gravity falls off his chest. Being inside the maker's bedroom feels like free-falling in comparison.

Stars fly. Globes dance. Walls are an option and the floor is a black sea. There is a single window that peers out upside-down into the universe and beside it, a bed, a desk, a bookshelf. These are the only things the maker sees fit to have grounded.

Second shelf, third book to the right. The maker's work journal tumbles out into his hands in a tousle.

"What do you have for me?" he asks the book and it whispers back, 'everything.'

_I am the precept of the Sabbath lights._

_I am the one who walks before the corpse._

_It is I who learned love above love with the serpent and consummated with the fatal fruit._

_The knowledge Adam partook of was lacking,_

_And the children I bore him were without hope,_

_So I killed him._

_I am thought corrupted down to its smallest form. I am a word in a phrase in an epithet in the many books of the Creator._

_And all you need is a word._

_When my skin is not my own and the fragments overwhelm I will remember:_

_I am_

"Eve," Belial says, looking up and not really seeing the maker there. "Your name is Eve."

The maker takes a step forward.

"Your name isn't Lucilius," he continues, unsure of the emotion crawling under his skin. "You're so fragile that you need to lie to your own creations? What kind of man are you to defy your maker and demand obedience from your own?"

He is so assured of his own death that the questions just start pouring out, all of the things he has wondered since the pages poured open.

"What are lovers? What is love above love? What even are you?"

He backs up into the desk as the maker approaches, sending quills and an inkwell sailing into the air.

The maker looms so close Belial can see the white pupils of his eyes. In them, he sees the end.

"I am original sin," says the maker, "I am lust. I am greed. I am evil, I am change, I am the bloodletting and the bloodline of Adam and every unholy whispered word."

The maker embraces him.

"And you are just like me."

Belial swallows and looks at the wall.

"And the love above love part?"

The maker chuckles. Spare him. "Allow me to show you."

* * *

Lust is a word for want, but in a special way: the ‘love above love’ kind of way.

Belial palms at the scars raking Lucilius’ chest while he sinks down onto him. Lust involves cocks, and holes, and his stomach knotting up with a warm heat. “So Lucifer is Adam?”

Lucilius snorts, settling the whole of his weight onto Belial. “Lucifer is a perfect creation. His inspiration was the serpent.”

“So I’m Adam?”

“You’re _me_. Though apparently, you multiplied my sliver of foolishness into spades.”

Lucilius is a galaxy in his own right. His insides are soft, but his chest is hard, a constellation rending all breast tissue from his form. The scars are white and look to have been crafted with a knife. “Then who’s Adam?” Belial asks a little desperately.

“Dead,” Lucilius answers. He slides up and down Belial’s cock with purpose, but hesitation, like a… like a man exploring another man for the first time. This is love above love; passion. “The world was frayed when we were cast from Paradise but the Split came when I ended his life. Thus was I shattered.”

It feels good, and he’s already terribly out of breath, but he needs to keep asking. He has to know. Everything in him needs to know. “Why?”

Wrinkling his nose, Lucilius pauses. “I could not tell you.” He is voracious, and not having knowledge in his hands obviously frustrates him. Belial knows the feeling so, so well.

“If you were shattered,” Belial says, “Then maybe he was too. Maybe he’s still out there.”

“If he is, I will find every copy and destroy it.”

“And then…?”

“Then I will end this farce of a world to drag the Creator down by the throat and ask him why.”

In the end, their motivations are the same. Lucilius rides him slowly, hands settled on Belial’s shoulders. Belial hunches over into him, exploring every inch of skin shown to him, deprived and depraved and _fascinated_.

The only thing to ever satisfy him was answers.

“Say,” Belial groans, “Can I come too?”

“I was planning to have Lucifer by my side,” Lucilius answers, a brow raised.

“Lucifer never tried to find out who you were,” Belial pants.

Lucilius slides into a considering silence. With a last anguished sound, Belial spills into him, bucking his hips up needily. Even after he is spent he reaches for Lucilius and touches, presses, finds himself guided into what he later learns is the first of many kisses. It only comes to a conclusion when Lucilius’ walls tighten around him and the maker finishes with Belial still inside.

There’s nothing more exhilarating than seeing their fluids leak out together in one big mess, but Lucilius does not look so pleased. He leaves the bed and comes back with a blanket, wiping away the mess.

Belial welcomes him back into bed with a tight embrace. With the mystery of want solved, he is so, so greedy for more.

“Lucifer will have me killed when he finds out,” Lucilius says. “And he will not aid me in matters of heavenly war.”

“I will,” Belial says, the promises dropping off his tongue. “I’ll do anything for you.”

Lucilius gives him a once-over. Belial palms the white skin of his thighs, just above his tights. “I am the tree planted with the death of virtue. You will doom this Paradise you know if you help me.”

“Then I’ll get thrown out with you, and I promise, you won’t ever have to kill me.”

“Though I shall want to a great many times,” Lucilius grumbles.

“That’s a given,” Belial laughs.

Musing, Lucilius turns Belial over, rakes his fingers over the bumps in his back where his wings begin. “You cannot hope to aid me in this form.”

“Then change me, Eve.”

“Lucilius is my name and you will remember it,” Lucilius says, coaxing Belial’s wings to open up. They crowd out the bed and shed purple feathers everywhere.

“Lucilius,” Belial swears.

“... And I am not Lucifer,” Lucilius continues with a shake of his head. “You say our names the same. ‘Cilius’ will do.”

“Cute,” Belial laughs again, bracing when a hand grips the base of his first wing. “Cilius.”

It’s the name he screams while his wings are ripped out piece by bloody piece.

* * *

“Eve.”

“Jedugiel.”

Belial breaks into a chuckle, batting his new black wings. “Neither of those really suit.”

“Hmph. You’re no longer much of an angel.”

More of a devil now, isn’t he? More of a serpent. Lucilius has given name to his plan -- ‘fallen angels,’ something of the sort -- and he will repurpose others to join their cause. Belial gathers him in to kiss his temple. The details don’t concern him, just the work.

“I’m what you made me to be.”

“I made you to be wise, and yet you still reached out for forbidden knowledge,” Lucilius says into his neck. He’s tall enough, now, that he can set his chin on his maker’s head. It’s a nice and warm feeling when arms encircle him, and Lucilius leans into him. “Perhaps I could chance to say the word ‘proud.’”

It makes him ache. Belial rocks from heel to toe. “Bed?”

“Not now. We have work to do.”

“You’re killing me, Cilius!”

“I will be in a moment.”

But Lucilius is the one who drags him down to kiss him, anyway. He tastes of apples and tea. Lucilius is the one who says it, first. “I love you.”

“And I adore you!”

A pair of wings around them, an eye at the falling sky.

A breath exhaled against his chest.

Love above love.


	2. eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for dysphoria, self-harm, body horror, and eating people.

Once upon a time before the Maker chose to disseminate the heavens and the earth,

There was a room.

Eve was a part of that room. Whatever he willed would be placed directly into his hands. Fruits; animals; time itself. Eve could have whatever he liked. And yet, Eve liked none of these things.

Presently the Maker walked into this small room and asked of Eve, “My dear, what is it you want? I will give you whatever you need.”

Eve had already begun to notice the matter at hand. The Maker spoke carefully. _Need_ was the word used for things he put into his hands. Ah, need.

Supplied with this new knowledge and a growing bit of despair in the humours, Eve replied, “I need a friend.”

The Maker thought this over carefully. While he thought, Eve considered how he could not look at the Maker straight-on, for the light would surely blind him. He could only regard the Maker from the corners of his eyes.

Eventually, the Maker acquiesced with a small nod. He had no head with which to nod, but Eve understood the gesture all the same. “You will have your friend. However, there is a price.”

“A price?”

“Yes, my dear,” said the Maker. “Every need comes with a price.”

“I am ready,” Eve said.

The Maker nodded. Eve regarded him from the corner of his eyes.

Thus, the Maker did rip six ribs out of Eve. One was for the friend; one was for new elements to be born in the air.

One was for their new world.

Eve bled profusely. Eve cried into his hands. However, he was grateful.

Now, he was no longer alone.

* * *

Adam' s eyes sparkle as he presents Eve with his latest find. "Look, Eve!" he calls, trying to fish for attention that is already there. "It's a new flower!"

"So it is," Eve replies. He removes his fingers from the dirt.

"Would you like to name it?" Adam asks. He is so desperate for a _yes_.

"Why not ask the Maker? He created it." To this, Adam scrunches his brows together.

"He only talks to you," says Adam. There is a strange expression on his face. Eve studies it for a long time. "Because I am of you and I come after you."

"Nonsense," Eve rebukes. Now, the expression shifts, and Eve recognises the familiar look of confusion.

"Those are the rules," Adam says.

When Eve does not answer Adam looks down. There are grooves in the dirt between them. He steps forward to get a better look but Eve makes a warning sound in the back of his throat.

"Eve, what is this?"

"It is a language."

"A 'language…'" Adam tastes the word carefully on his tongue. "May I touch it?"

"So long as you do not alter it."

Adam beams. His larger fingers carefully dance over the pits Eve has created. Eve studies the form of his spawn in the downtime. Adam is much bigger than him, much more lithe, with flowing hair that almost always drags across the earth.

\-- he will have to ask Adam to hold it in his hands around his creations.

"What is it?" Adam asks when he is finished tracing the last.

"It's a language," Eve repeats, slightly sharper than before.

"Yes. I know the word now," Adam nods, "But what is its purpose?"

Yes -- a good question. What is its _purpose_. Here is a question the Maker will not answer for them.

Eve has begun making answers of his own.

"If we wish to access our history, in time, our memories will not be enough. I am designing symbols that we might use to relay our experiences into a more permanent fixture."

"... in other words?" Adam asks sheepishly.

"Shapes in stone for stories."

"Stories!" says Adam now, visibly excited. "Stories we can see and listen to any time?"

"So long as you can read the symbols, yes."

Adam beams. "How brilliant. I should have expected no less."

Eve drags his finger through the dirt. A warm feeling settles in his lower half. His stomach.

"Eve…"

"Yes, Adam?"

"Can you relay more than stories?"

Eve grunts. "Of course."

Adam smiles. "Would you possibly be able to relay my name?"

After a long pause where Adam begins to lose confidence, Eve hums.

In an area separate from his alphabet -- right beneath Adam's nose -- he writes _Adam_ in the earth.

"Is this my name?" Adam murmurs.

"It's what you asked for, didn't you?-- what?"

Adam has begun to cry. The ends of his hair are muddy. He tries to pick his name up but the word comes to pieces in his hands. He does not seem to understand why.

"Are you going to eat it?" Eve presumes, lifting a brow.

"Should I?"

"Do as you like."

Adam complains of the taste, marking it sour. Eve returns to his budding masterpiece.

* * *

Eden is quite limited in its breadth. It is more than a room, but it is still a box. Adam whiles the time away naming all the plants he comes across. He is, by all accounts, satisfied.

Eve names the things beneath: the rocks, the dirtbed, the shadows cast by the bushes. He gives word to the sound of feelings, and in doing so he creates two.

 _Satisfaction_ ; _dissatisfied_.

 _Patience_ ; _impulse_.

 _Need_ ; _want_.

 _Ignorance_ and _curiosity_.

"What is this?" Adam asks, glittering with wonder at the flower Eve has created before him. "Where did you find it?"

"I made it."

"Why?"

Eve shifts under Adam's stare.

"You lamented the lack of red flowers."

Adam considers, for a moment, and then he smiles warmly. "I shall call it a rose."

"Mind your fingers," Eve warns when Adam tries to pick it.

"And what are these?" he gasps at the sight of the rose's barbs.

"You tell me."

Adam hums. "Thorns… what a fascinating design."

He picks each thorn out and sticks the flower behind his own ear.

Adam learns curiosity. Eve learns satisfaction.

* * *

Adam has taken Eve's chiseling instruments and begun banging them together.

Eve is unsure of what to do at the sight. The sound produced is grating-- yes, _grating_.

"Ad--"

Presently, Adam has begun to scrape them together. The sound this creates is particularly _cacophonic_.

Eve holds his hands to his ears. Finally does Adam notice his presence.

"Eve!" he says in delight. "You will not believe what I have discovered today?"

"And what is that, Adam?" Eve returns, gritting his teeth. "A new form of annoyance?"

"No, not at all! I have a word for it." In the Maker’s image. Adam so loves to define the things given to them. "I call it music."

It's a pleasant and arching term for something so terrible. Eve thinks he should enjoy it, but he does not.

"Such as that may be," Eve grumbles, "You are using my tools."

"Ah!" Adam hands them over submissively. Eve studies the newly-made grooves in his implements. At least the sharp ends have not been dulled by Adam's experiment.

When his examination is through he finds Adam at his side. "Yes?"

"Would you make me an instrument of my own?" Adam requests, bold-faced as ever. Eve stares at him.

"Make it yourself."

"... make it myself?" repeats Adam, sounding _perplexed_.

Eve leaves him there to his musings. He has pressing business to attend to.

* * *

After an unnamed stretch of time the clanging begins again. Eve is content to ignore it, but it appears to be advancing on him.

Adam makes way. Eve is forced to abandon his work to observe the source of the noise--

Which is. Two brilliant, shining discs of a colour they have called _gold_. The material has been spin outward to create a circular shape reminiscent to a lid.

Cheerfully, Adam clangs the lids together in rhythm.

"What have you created?" Eve asks.

"Cymbals!"

"Symbols?" Eve echoes in confusion, glancing at the symbols he's already written into the ground.

"Of my own kind. You told me to make my own instruments -- do you like them?"

No, he does not. The process, however, has him interested. "How went your creation?" The only gold they have observed in the garden is --

Adam shows where he cut his locks, frayed ends standing out stark against the rest of his hair.

"How particularly _smart_ of me, wouldn't you agree?" Adam beams.

Eve feels a prick. It dances all across his skin. It is foreign and little bumps on his arms raise up.

"Eve?"

Adam cannot create without a price. Adam had been created with a price. And yet,

Eve stares at his work on the ground, his silver tools. These are his. He has the power of creation.

Adam does not.

"Ahhh." Adam has noticed his latest idea. He crouches down to the earth, setting his cymbals aside to observe. "You're busy contemplating the next level of language!"

"... natural observation of static phenomena," Eve disagrees softly.

Adam looks up. "This is not language?"

"This is math."

"How wonderful!" says Adam, vacantly. "What is it for?"

"To note down the state of the garden at a specific _DONOTTOUCHME_."

Adam pauses. Eve sends a panicked scowl at the hand on his shoulder.

"What?"

"Do not. Touch me," Eve grates out.

Slowly, Adam lets his hand fall. A strange expression sits on his face. He stands back up, retrieves his instruments, and he leaves Eve alone.

Eve touches his chest, feeling breath race in and out of him. What is this? Why is this?

Adam is not Eve. Adam is a different creature entirely.

* * *

The garden is not overly broad. Adam does not question its length or its width; rather, he simply follows each step Eve takes, staring with the same-held curiosity when Eve measures his paces with a long wooden rod.

Before this moment, neither of them had ventured far from their ‘home.’ It is a fountain of the earth, overflowing in colours and life… and yet, nothing changes. Eve gathers his measurements in a quick length of time, charting them down on a thin slab of rock.

“What will this teach you?” Adam persists, squatting next to Eve in attendance.

“The limits of our world.”

“The… limits?”

“Do you know what this place is called, Adam?”

“Ah, yes! It is named ‘Eden.’ This I knew when I first emerged from your breast.”

Eve frowns, reluctant to recall the event. “How many letters form the word ‘Eden?’”

Adam has struggled to pick up Eve’s alphabet, but he has tried again and again, devoting himself to the task. “Four,” he replies, after a moment.

“It is not five,” Eve says. “It is not three. It is not six. It is four letters.”

“Yes…” Adam is failing to see his point.

“How many letters are in ‘Adam?'”

“Four,” Adam beams.

“How many letters are in ‘Eve?'”

“... three?” says Adam after a rueful pause. This _discord_ causes a furrowing of his brows.

“Three,” Eve confirms. “I have come before you. I have come before Eden. My accord is different.”

“Surely,” begins Adam, and then he falters. Surely, the Maker has a plan. Surely, this could not mean anything deep.

“Do not overly concern yourself,” Eve waves away. “Continue. How many letters to the word ‘hill?'”

“Ah… four?”

“Good boy,” Eve praises. Adam colours red. “Now, how many in ‘tree?'”

“Four!”

“And in ‘sin?'”

“I… I’m afraid I do not know the word, Eve,” Adam sighs, always so devastated to disappoint. “Please, teach me.”

Eve gazes through their home, towards the hill, on which a lonely tree takes solitude and hides behind leafy branches.

“I believe,” Eve says, “We shall both know soon enough.”

* * *

“Welcome back,” the serpent coos, flicking its tongue out. It uncurls from its resting spot and slithers over to Eve, wrapping around one of his arms. “What did your progeny think?”

“He was not overly convinced,” Eve says with a shake of his head. The scales of the serpent loosen and tighten, and they breathe against him. It is… a feeling from which he does not shy away.

 _Do not touch me_ ; Adam had flown away from him, stupefied by the refusal.

 _Touch me_ , he asks the serpent in silent tongues, and he is quietly obliged.

“The submissive take their time in warming up to the concept,” the snake tells him. When he listens, Eve has the vague impression that his skull has been lifted, opened up, and knowledge is being poured down in.

“What do you mean?” he asks. This, too-- he does not ask Adam questions. Rather, he is the wielder of wisdom. Now, he turns to the source.

“Simply as I said. Listen carefully, my friend! Those who have never slaked their thirst do not realise it is there in the first place.”

Eve does not answer. He is absorbing. Meanwhile, the snake is coiling around his shoulders, crossing over to his other arm.

Eventually, Eve presses, “What are you, if you did not come from me?” 

Everything that has ever sprung forth has come from him, and he himself came from the maker.

And now, the serpent laughs. It is a different sound to Adam’s delight. It’s caught somewhere between the metallic clanging of his new cymbals and humour. It feels cold when it runs through him.

“From where come the things that you have not made, Eve?”

“... the Maker.”

“Yes, yes. You’ve the right of it,” the snake says. “I am of the maker. In fact, I precede you.”

“Precede me?”

“Does it not delight you? You are not the very first.”

Eve feels a bit dizzy. He has never, ever considered the thought. Simply, he was born, and from there, the world expanded.

“Or did you long to know you were the mother of all creation? My, what hubris…”

“‘Mother,’” Eve repeats, and he does not like it. He does not like the word at all. The serpent pauses in his exploration, and then he laughs again.

“You do not like to be called that.”

“I do not like it,” agrees Eve.

“Now, now… what shall we call you instead? Do you have any ideas?”

“The name given to me…”

“Ah, yes. Did you look to the maker as you were named? Did you ask him to give you that sound?”

Eve furrows his brow, troubled, puzzled. “I did not.”

“Then why accept what was thrust upon you?”

 _That’s the rule. That’s simply how it is_. No, but, why…

“Come, come,” the serpent invites. “A name. Give yourself a name. You are not the mother the maker wishes you to be.”

“I…”

Adam names the flowers. Adam names the trees. Adam names the colours. Eve simply transcribes his sounds into symbols based in rock.

“ **Come**.”

“I cannot,” Eve says suddenly. The snake falls off of his shoulders. He stands up, blinking with confusion at the leaves that scatter from his lap. He looks above and he is beneath the tree on the hill. “I cannot,” he repeats, while the serpent huffs and returns to its perch in the branches.

“Never?” the serpent wonders.

“What-- what is ‘never?’” spits Eve, filled with a sharp emotion he cannot place.

“Haha. ‘Never’ is the opposite of ‘forever.’ ‘Forever’ is what you are now.”

… and that makes no sense. He is simply what he is. He cannot be the opposite of what he is.

Surely.

“-- not never,” Eve agrees, face still clouded as his mind works to understand.

“Good to hear. Come back when you’ve made up your mind. I’ll be waiting.”

The serpent retreats, not to be seen again. Eve tries to find his white scales in the foliage, but only red fruits remain.

* * *

Adam stares fixedly at him. Eve is unsure why, but the trail of Adam's eyes makes him feel uncomfortably warm.

"I found a new flower today," he says as always, producing a long-tipped stem with purple raindrops falling off the end. "I'm calling it an orchid."

"I see."

His partner shifts unhappily. "I created a rhythm with my cymbals, if you should like to hear it."

"For what purpose?"

"What?"

Eve looks him in the eyes and repeats himself. "For what purpose?"

"I'm…" Adam looks at him in bewilderment. "What does that mean?"

"Why do you name flowers? Why do you bang on your cymbals?"

"It makes me happy," says Adam. He sounds unsure.

Eve rounds on him. "What does 'happy' mean?"

"Happy is-- it means--"

"What does 'forever' mean?"

"Eve," begins Adam, "What are you doing? I don't understand."

“I am asking questions. Why?”

“Why…”

Adam loses some of the panic on his face, looking more contemplative, more curious. Eve feels something swell inside of him.

Just as easily, it descends, swallowed by the dark pit inside his stomach when Adam answers. “I am afraid I do not understand.”

Eve does not understand either, but it is not a call for sadness. It is a challenge-- yes, a challenge. Why should they remain like flowers in Eden, frozen, never changing? For what purpose has the maker put them here? He would like to know.

“Eve,” Adam rings. “Eve. Next time, will you take me to the hill, and show me what you have found?”

Eve’s lips form around the word, crushing Adam’s hopes. “No.” But he brightens-- “But no is not ‘never.’ Soon, perhaps.”

“I look forward to it.”

The greatest challenge of all, Eve muses, will be to bring Adam into his quest for understanding.

* * *

Eve’s cheeks are flush with colour when the serpent glides across his chest. He knows this because the serpent has told him so, and he would not have thought to imagine it otherwise.

“What of it?” Eve demands, making a soft sound, an _oh_ , as the snake continues to wind.

“Ah, nothing in particular. I just thought it was very beautiful.”

Eve narrows his eyes. “Have you been speaking with Adam?”

The serpent laughs. He is a ring around Adam’s hips. “Not without your leave. But the _leaves_. Yes, the leaves. They tell me many things.”

“... they tell you Adam’s words?”

“And they tell me of your doubts,” the snake says. “Do not worry of that now. Let me take care of you.”

Eve doesn’t know what to say, but that’s quite alright.

His body does the talking for him.

* * *

Let exalted flesh sing.

Let neurons know the delightful sting of agony.

Let the spirit wander and the mind take hold of the body.

Adam beholds Eve’s cheeks of red with no less confusion than before. In fact, his puzzlement has only heightened as they pressed through the gaps in the garden towards the hill, his excitement dampened by the fervour in Eve’s eyes.

“Why,” Adam says, inhaling sharp as he takes the fruit from Eve’s hands, “This fruit is the same colour as your face.”

“Is it?” Eve replies, the breathlessness scurrying its way through his lungs.

“What is it called?”

“I do not know. You shall name it.”

Adam thinks for some time. He does not know of the snake trailing through the tree. It is as though he is blinded by the colour placed between his fingers. “I should think to call it a fig.”

“What letters make it?” Eve considers. Here, Adam smiles.

“F, I, G. Three. Just like ‘Eve.’”

Eve doesn’t know what to say of that, so he says nothing. He joins his hands with Adam’s, the two of them holding the fig in the space between.

“Shall we partake?” Adam suggests, his eyes alarmingly bright.

Eve looks up into the branches. The serpent laps its tongue at them. He returns to Adam’s gaze and nods.

And thus did they both share of the fruit which they should never taste--

* * *

Adam’s hands seize his own. Eve fights against him with all of his strength, nearly throwing Adam off of him in his frenzy.

“Eve!” Adam cries. “Eve!” But it is useless.

“Get off of me,” Eve hisses in some primal voice, “Do not touch me, get off of me, do not know me, do not look at me--”

“ **Eve**!”

Physically superior, Adam manages to rip Eve’s implements out of his hands. Still, he can do nothing for the blood that has already been shed. He stares at the sliced flesh of Eve’s chest with a mounting horror.

Eve’s tools, rusted and curved by use in stone, had largely been dulled by the passage of time. They could not simply cut clean through his breast tissue. The skin that has been flayed hangs off in pieces, with a few red chunks littering through the grass. The green is tinged with red, even what seems to be black.

Adam’s thrown his tools aside. Eve supposes he could limp over to where they glitter, but the fight’s gone out of him. He gives an experimental twitch of his fingers. Above him, Adam’s voice rises with panic.

“You will die,” Adam says, quite assuredly. “You will die and I will be alone. Why would you leave me alone? Why do you want to be apart from me so badly?”

 _It is not you,_ Eve supposes he might say, but he opens his mouth and there’s blood on his tongue. He turns his head to the side and coughs it out.

Adam’s tears drop onto his cheeks. Eve winces an eye shut in annoyance.

“Now then,” says the serpent, coiling down the tree with his red, red eyes. Eve rolls his head towards him. “It seems the two of you are in need of some help.”

“You-- what--” Adam stammers. “Are you of the maker?” The word doesn’t drop quite right from his lips, sundering the rest of the words on his tongue.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” soothes the snake. “Your partner is going to die unless you stop the bleeding.”

“What do I do?” Adam asks, so utterly… utterly helpless.

“I knew of her flesh before it was taken.” The snake drops down into the grass with a soft _thump_. His tongue slithers, tasting the red all around. “I will tend her wounds.”

Eve’s not sure when he shut his eyes. Now, he opens them. The snake sits on his breasts, and his added weight doubles the pain.

“And, I--?”

“You?” the snake says to Adam, almost dismissively. He seems to hum a sigh before speaking again. “You will pick leaves from the tree to cover yourselves. The First Night is coming, and it will be quite cold.” He turns an eye on Eve. “And she has grown upset with your differences.”

Adam doesn’t ask twice. He hikes himself up into the split of the branches, picking at the leaves of the tree in a hurry.

All told, the snake does nothing more than add a pressure to his body. Eve wishes he could thrash about, or embrace him. He can do nothing but cough, though if he tries--

“Hm?”

“Why,” Eve repeats, rough and ragged, “Why do you call me a ‘she?’”

“You already know the answer,” the serpent tells him. “When you told the maker you needed a friend, in two he divided you. Adam is man. You are woman.”

“I am _not_ …”

“No, I suppose you do not think so,” his companion laughs. “Yet you have beheld your differences and you understand.”

Eve lays his head back down in the grass. He curls his hands into fists.

“I am not what you say I am,” he utters stubbornly.

“Then you ought to speak with the maker and ask him. Ah, but I suppose you cannot, now.”

The sun glints in the snake’s eyes as it begins to set. The sky has changed from its simple blue to a complicated gash of colours. Eve would name them, but his head is getting fuzzy.

“Did you like the taste of doom on your tongue?”

Eve winces, vaguely hears Adam coming back from up in the tree. It’s so hard to focus.

Doom… four letters.

Sin… three.

The snake had taught them to him both. Only now does Eve behold their meaning.

“Die immediately,” Eve curses, and he faints to the snake laughing louder than he’s ever heard.

* * *

The garden grows dark with night. Adam dresses him with fig leaves and spends the darkness embraced with him. Eve feels his fever come, break, and return again.

It seems endless, but the blue comes again. The serpent is gone. The grass is green, and the sun comes out.

“... it seems we’re fine,” Adam says softly, hopefully, averting his shameful gaze from Eve’s body as he disentangles them. Eve cannot lift himself from the ground without his help, however, and once again they become entwined.

Adam supports his weight as Eve breathes heavily into his neck, inadvertently tasting the salt of the flesh there.

“Let us return.”

Though, to what? While the fig tree remains green and upright, the garden they departed from has grown brown and cold in their absence. The fruit trees are dead. The bushes are shriveled. Eve’s rocks have been weathered down to pebbles, the writing broken, and Adam’s instruments are rusted.

“We cannot stay here,” Eve says against Adam’s arm. He is quite small when they are standing side-to-side. He does not like it. “We shall surely starve.”

“This was our home,” Adam says thickly. “This was Eden.”

Eve grunts.

“We will speak to the maker,” Adam’s continuing, “And he will hear us, and he will forgive us for…”

For sin. Doom.

“We’re going,” Eve replies decisively, stumbling forward a few steps, holding an arm across his chest. Adam quickens to his side and holds him again. “We don’t belong here.”

They have no choice; they must depart.

The garden is no more than five minutes’ walk across. At some time, Eve had known its exact measurements, but the numbers escape him.

He does not look back when they pass through the last of the trees. Outside, the sky opens before them, with nothing but grass stretching as far as the eye can see.

He thinks he hears the serpent laughing, yet the sweep of the wind carries his voice far away.

* * *

“Ah.”

“Eve?” Adam questions, leaning his weight back from the basket in his hands to peer through the doorway. “Are you fair?”

“I am bleeding.”

The basket of laundry tumbles to the floor. Adam rushes to his side--

\-- and backs up, quite suddenly, face flushed as red as a fruit when he beholds Eve’s nakedness. He covers his hand with his mouth.

Eve draws his fingers back from between his thighs, showing off the red, though he supposes it’s rather pointless with the stain he’s left on the bed.

“I am bleeding,” he repeats irately. “Fetch me a cloth.”

Adam does just that, averting his eyes as much as possible. The bleeding does not stop, however, not until seven moons have sunk, and seven suns have risen.

“Why do you suppose you’ve bled?” Adam inquires after the fact, balefully studying the ruined scarves and trousers Eve has left him to clean. He enjoys needlework and dyes far more than he does laundry. Yet, it is his duty.

And Eve’s duty is…

“Punishment?” Eve scoffs. He jots down the last of the experience on sheepskin parchment. “The maker will not speak with us but sends his regards between my legs.”

“I do not think it is that,” Adam says softly, letting his eyes trail down…

His ears are going pink again. Must he be so obvious?

Rather, he surprises Eve with his next addition. “I think I might know a way to keep it away.” When Eve looks at him sharply, he curls a hand at his neck. “Ah, please do not look at me like that…”

“I am the head of this house and you will keep no secrets from me,” Eve deadpans.

“When we ate of the tree, I found my thoughts filled with many things-- and the snake, he spoke of _knowing your flesh_ , and--”

Adam’s stammering gives way to a most dreaded conclusion. Eve tilts his head distastefully, rolling his red stola between his fingers.

“It concerns our differences, but I never wished to upset you… so I did not speak of it.” Adam hangs his head in guilt.

Naturally. Eve looks up at the ceiling. The maker has cursed him in all sorts of ways, right from the very start.

Without a second to waste, he throws his fabrics from his shoulders and hops back onto the bed. Adam does not join him.

Eve looks at him and raises a brow.

Adam blushes to the tips of his ears and _squeaks_.

“Come, then, and make it quick,” Eve beckons. “I have much work to be done today.”

Adam embraces him. It is not a quick activity -- it is quite strenuous, and it involves the touching he derides almost daily. Eve is not imbued with new knowledge at the end of the affair, but Adam lays a head across his scarred chest contentedly, breathing into his skin.

Their firstborn son comes nine months later.

* * *

“What is this?” Eve asks slowly, carefully, one sunset at the entrance to their home, steps away from their wheat fields.

“It’s my tooth,” Cain answers.

“It’s his tooth,” Abel grins.

Eve rolls the tooth between his fingers. Adam, who is at work preparing their nightly bread, has not yet heard of this… event.

He should not have to; as head of the household, it falls to Eve to discipline their spawn.

“Who started it?” he sighs.

“Abel’s lambs keep eating out of my gardens--”

“Cain keeps tossing seeds at my livestock--”

“--and I told him to keep out ‘cause they keep trampling my vines--”

“--and he just wouldn’t shut up, and he keeps saying Father said to ‘spread seeds wherever they might grow’ or whatever--”

“--so then Abel punched me--”

“--so then I punched Cain--”

“-- and I fell down that hill,” Cain finishes, pointing to the soft dip in the land over yonder.

“He started crying, too,” Abel sniffs. “But he didn’t break any bones and you always say to tell you if we do, so I didn’t. ‘Cause he didn’t.”

Eve pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Eve,” Cain says carefully, “Are you angry?”

“I am quite angry,” Eve agrees.

“Mother--”

“I am not your mother,” Eve snaps at Abel, “And you are not a child. The both of you will come to an agreement and stop inflicting violence upon the other.”

Cain bows his head in quiet submission. Abel scowls up at Eve.

“So if you’re not our mother, who is?” he challenges.

“No one is.”

“Then who made us?”

Eve glares. “I made you. Stop asking stupid questions.”

“Then who was your mother?”

“I don’t _have_ a mother.”

“Then where do babies come from!?” Abel erupts. “I’ve weaned twenty calves and they all have mothers! So what does that make you?”

“What’s all the shouting?” Adam asks, sticking his head out of the house. He’s got a pot in hand.

“This does not concern you, Adam. Be silent.”

“No! I want to know!” Abel turns to Adam, clearly hoping to find alliance in his father. “Father! Where did we come from?”

“Eve, of course,” Adam answers.

“So Eve’s our mother!”

“Yes, of course,” Adam replies stupidly, because he is stupid, and he has always been stupid.

“See!” Abel rallies, turning back to Eve. Cain shifts uncomfortably beside him, but his eyes are round and focused on Eve, too.

Eve inhales a breath and speaks carefully. “A mother is a caretaker,” he says, “Who rears children. They are soft like your calves. They are gentle like your lambs.”

Abel furrows his brows, not seeming to understand the point. Cain, naturally, does. He’s always been the brighter of the two. Eve lays a hand on his hair.

Abel studies that hand in focused silence.

“I am not gentle,” Eve continues. “I am not soft. If you continue in your ignorance I will have the both of you cast to the stones.”

“So what are you?” Abel persists.

“I am your creator.”

“And our mother is Adam?” Cain asks.

Eve pauses, then gives a nod. “Yes. He is your mother.”

“-- pardon!?”

“You heard me,” Eve says louder. Cain runs to his newly-christened mother and buries his face in Adam’s gown. Adam nearly tips over. Eve looks to Abel, and finds their eyes to meet.

“Creator,” repeats Abel. He looks… troubled, and thoughtful, and he’s gone quiet, like he always does when he’s trying to figure out a problem with his animals.

“If the name is not to your liking then you may call me Eve. But I will suffer no talk of motherhood.”

“... sure.” And Abel takes a step toward the house, but he lingers, never removing his eyes. “Then who bleeds?”

“Hm?” Eve stops.

“Who bleeds? You or Adam?” Abel asks. “When mothers give birth there’s always a lot of blood. So it’s you or him.”

“My son,” Eve sighs, crossing his arms, “Did your brother not bleed when he tumbled from the hill?”

“...”

“Do you not bleed when your sheep bite you as you shear them?”

“...”

“Everyone bleeds,” says Eve, cold like the end of a knife. “In what amount, for what reasons, it matters not. All life on this earth bleeds. That is our duty.”

“Our duty?”

“Off with you,” Eve grumbles. “I have much work to do and you are in my way.”

Abel stares at him a moment longer. His gaze travels to the roundness of Eve’s belly.

Then, he whisks himself off.

Eve mumbles a curse after him and departs for the hill, pocketing the tooth in his trousers.

* * *

“Eve,” Azura calls to her creator one morning. Eve gathers himself up from the sheets of his bed, rubbing his eyes. The sun is bright in the sky. Abel, Cain, Awan, Adam -- they are all out in the fields, already at work.

“My daughter,” Eve replies, giving Azura permission to enter with a wave of his hand. Azura bows his head before crossing the threshold into the room.

“Eve, Creator,” Azura says, coming to kneel at the bedside, “I have come to you for guidance.”

“In what matters?” Eve’s voice is thick with exhaustion. “Your maths work should be no harder than yesterday’s. Awan yet calculates the sun’s distance in the fields.”

Azura rolls her body from side to side, then shakes her head. “No, it is not about that. Rather, I have a question about… yes, Awan. Awan and myself.”

Eve places his head back on the pillow. He shall not enjoy this conversation.

“Awan’s skin grows soft,” Azura says, as though she is sharing a deep secret. “By the day. And my chest swells though I do not know why. What is happening to me, Creator?”

Eve stares at the window. “You are becoming a woman, Azura.”

“A woman?”

He knew this day should come but not so _soon_. His head is pounding; he’s barely had an hour of sleep. Children always have their questions for you, research and sleep be damned.

“A woman is complement to man,” Eve begins mechanically. “Head of the household, learner of all hard things. Her soft skin belies the wisdom beneath. A man has his place in the fields or in the home, keeping the hearth. A woman lets her feet take her outside the boundaries of the world and takes note of its knowledge.”

Azura looks as though she cannot even begin to understand. “Math,” she responds, “Logic, this I know. Yet…”

“Out with it.”

“Are you not… Creator,” Azura says, and stops, words seeming to fail her.

Eve sets her chin upon a hand and meets Azura’s gaze.

“A woman is complement to man,” Eve says.

“Yes.”

“Adam is a man.”

“Certainly so,” Azura blinks.

“You wonder if I am a woman.”

“All other explanations found wanting,” Azura provides.

Eve heaves a heavy, profound sigh. Azura looks to him with worry.

“Humanity is not set in stone,” Eve answers. “Man and women they were divided. The maker so decreed.”

Azura holds silent.

“And in this house we do not listen to the wanton boundaries proposed by the maker,” Eve sneers. His face contorts in anger. “Womanhood is as much of a choice as manhood. Your body may tell you otherwise. Simply tell it to stop.”

“... I see,” Azura says at last. “Humanity is rather complicated.”

“Indeed. Now, leave me to my--”

“Creator…”

Eve grunts.

“I think… I should rather like to be a woman,” says Azura, with slightly flushed cheeks.

“Fantastic,” Eve replies. “Now get out of my room.”

Azura departs him with a confused but giddy look on her face. Eve pushes his face into the pillows.

He does not know day or night for many hours yet.

* * *

It does not entirely sink in. Helpfully, Cain repeats himself.

“I have killed Abel.”

It is a new word, but they all seem to know its meaning. Awan holds Azura in her arms. Adam stares at his son for a long, long time.

Cain approaches his creator and offers him the knife.

“This is yours,” he says. “My apologies, Eve.”

There is much talk -- much more talk -- where Adam raises his voice, and Cain does too. Something gets shattered. Azura screams and Awan yells at her brother. Sin and doom are thrown around and the argument begins in earnest.

Eve hears none of it. He stares down at the knife. It’s painted with the red of blood.

Should he be sad for the loss of his son? Probably. Two of his sons, now; Cain is speaking, talking about wandering, being cast out by the maker.

The maker.

… the maker.

“How delightful,” the snake says, coiling up on his shoulder. He’s not truly there; if he were, his husband and children would have shouted at once. As it stands, they are caught up within themselves. No -- Eve is merely hallucinating.

The serpent chuckles. “Are you? Was hearing of your son’s death that much of a shock? I’m simply glad to know that murder carries on in the blood.”

“We have never murdered,” Eve says quietly.

“Ah, but you did. Do you not remember? The murder of innocence. When I knew your flesh -- when you bit the fruit of the fig -- when you cursed the garden. You are the inheritor of the earth, and its killer.”

Eve looks up with glassy eyes. Awan, now, has taken to Cain’s side, throwing an arm in front of him. Adam is red in the face with anger. They should be consulting him. They should have included him by now. Shouldn’t they?

No one looks at Eve.

“When you spoke to the maker,” the snake whispers, “What was your price?”

“A rib,” Eve whispers back. “Several. For Adam. For the elements.”

“Was that not murder of its own kind? You were robbed, Eve. The maker can create anything. _You_ can create anything. Yet the maker stole from you. He lied to you.”

“... needs have a price.”

“Do you find the price agreeable? Your flesh has murdered your flesh and you continue to be robbed,” the snake points out. “Look--”

With an angry slamming of the door, Awan and Cain are departed. Azura shivers in the silence of the room. With worried brow, Adam comes to her, wrapping her up in his arms.

“What an awful accomplice he made,” comments the snake, “Taking from you and never giving back.”

“Cain has killed my son,” Eve scowls. His voice is loud enough that Adam looks over, but he only has two arms. He cannot hold his daughter and his partner.

“Eve?” he broaches softly. The snake’s voice is louder.

“For what it’s worth,” says the snake, “I think Adam killed your son. Don’t you think he could have stopped this? He’s supposed to be your complement… your emotions… the keeper of your hearth. Has he not ripped your house apart?”

Eve studies Adam with cautious, wary eyes.

“Has he not taken your manhood from you? Has he not cursed you to live in this flesh?”

Eve does not look away.

“Eve…?”

“Have you not felt enough pain to realise the truth?” the snake objects. His tongue flicks to the side of Eve’s cheek and Eve realises there are tears. His tears. “Eve. Is it not time you were returned what was taken from you?”

“How?”

The snake kisses his cheek and chuckles. “It’s quite simple. Take it back.”

Eve looks down at the knife.

Eve looks at Adam.

Eve presses a hand to his chest.

“Take it back,” the serpent says, “And your house and flesh will be restored.”

“Take it back,” Eve agrees.

The weight vanishes from his shoulder and the tears roll off his cheeks.

Eve brandishes the knife.

* * *

“Azura.”

“Creator.”

“Do you find the soup agreeable?”

“... might I be honest?”

“I did not raise you to be a liar.”

“... it’s sour,” Azura says morosely, stirring her spoon. “I think you ought to have seasoned it for longer.”

“A shame,” Eve replies apathetically. “I find it agreeable on the tongue. Is the muscle minced enough for you?”

“It’s rather slippery.”

“I was not much of a cook,” Eve laughs. “But a heart will always be so. You know of beef heart and its taste.”

“It was much different from this,” Azura sighs, but she sips every spoonful. Quite soon, their bowls are drained. “Eve…”

“Yes, my daughter?”

“What will we do now?”

Eve ponders a moment, gathering their dishware and placing it to the side. “Burn the remains. Toss the ashes over the hill.”

“... and what if Cain doesn’t come back?”

Azura withers under Eve’s thousand-yard stare. “He will. I have restored my manhood and my house. My flesh will gather again.”

“How can you know?” Azura asks.

“The serpent told me so,” Eve says, as simple as if he were commenting on the weather. Adam’s body has begun to reek, so Eve gives it a kick.

The corpse just spouts more blood on the floor. Pathetic.

“Creator,” Azura is saying. “Creator.” But when Eve turns his head there is no Azura. When Eve turns his head back the other way there is no Adam. When Eve looks above, there is darkness, and when Eve looks below, there is a brightness that threatens to swallow him up.

He shields his eyes, but he is consumed without prejudice.

* * *

Let the world be severed apart.

Let synapses never be crossed.

Let shards rain from heaven.

Let us begin again.

“Will Eve return to us?” Adam -- what once was Adam -- asks sadly in a room without walls, doors or windows, cupping fragments of Eve in his hands. They cut his palms but he does not complain. He beseeches the Maker: “Please. I want to see him.”

“‘Him?’” the Maker repeats doubtfully.

“You must return him to me,” argues the being that is no longer Adam.

Beneath their feet, a garden… nay, a world, is constructed anew. In the shadows cast by growing life, the serpent slithers its way out of the Maker’s sight.

The Maker exhales softly.

“Why would you reunite with a murderer?”

“I love him, and I want him,” Adam says factually. Love -- the word that had let Eve’s knife slide into his breast without resistance.

The Maker has learned of love.

It is a dangerous, unwieldy thing.

“I will remake what has been lost,” the Maker says, “And you will be my guide. Eve cannot be trusted. I must scatter her.” The Maker looks at him. “I must scatter you.”

The remainder of Eden does not even flinch. “Whatever it takes to see him.”

… dangerous indeed.

“You were known for your proclivity of naming things,” the Maker muses. “It is a skill I lack. Would you be so kind?”

“What?”

The Maker gestures with a thousand hands at the fragments he’s clutching. “Name him anew, and give him another chance.”

It is a heavy decision to make, but who else should make it?

The new world must have a Speaker with the Maker’s voice.

“Lucilius,” the Speaker says finally, shutting his eyes. “It has eight letters. Four for the both of us.”

“What a strange little thing you are,” the Maker agrees, dismissing the Speaker with a hand. He scatters to the forming world and takes Eve’s shards with him. “Every need comes with a price.”

The Maker must know of love again. The price is easy.

 _Lucilius_.

In long-winded fashion, the Maker pronounces once more,

“Let there be light!”


	3. yehoel

“What is it?” Lucilius asks again, this time with less patience than before.

Lucifer holds the small, pulsing core in his arms. “It is my creation. You said I was free to make a beast of my own choosing. Did you not say so, my friend?”

Lucilius is forced to concede the point, as he always does. But there’s something certainly aberrant in the appearance of the glowing core. It radiates a warmth that penetrates the air, no matter how tightly Lucifer clutches it. “Do you know the form it will take, Lucifer?”

Belial, lounging out on the balcony, unfurls his wings to offer them some reprieve from the sun.

“I have an idea,” the supreme primarch says carefully. “But I know it will take time for him to emerge.”

“‘Him?’” Lucilius lifts a brow.

“I believe it’s a boy,” answers Lucifer.

“Careful what you believe,” Belial says jovially from the balcony. He slings a leg onto the balustrade. “Anyway. Do you got a name for it? Don’t keep us quivering in sweet anticipation. The boss,” he gestures a thumb at Lucilius, “No time for it.”

While Lucilius is busy scowling in Belial’s direction, Lucifer takes a breath to answer.

“Yehoel.”

“Bit of a mouthful, isn’t it? I like that.”

Lucilius turns back. It is clear, in his face, that he’s not entirely sure about the name. Neither is Lucifer, but he exhales and continues cradling the core.

He is perfection. He is Lucilius’ greatest creation. And he cannot fail. Perfection cannot fail.

Everything will be fine.

* * *

“‘Everything will be fine,’” Belial parrots at him two months later while the two of them take shelter behind a crumbling pillar. “Does this look ‘fine’ to you, Lucifer? Do you think this is fine?”

He senses some of the spite inherited from Lucilius in that tone. Lucifer has the good grace to be ashamed of what he has wrought, but now is not the time for shame, nor regrets.

Belial whistles appreciatively when he draws one of his blades. “Extermination time?”

He gives the barest of nods before his six wings open up and he flies off.

He is Lucilius’ greatest creation, given the duty of observing the evolution of the world. A single angel cannot fell him.

Certainly, however, Yehoel tries.

Between the swirling golden rings of eyes, Yehoel fires at will. He **fires** at will. He shoots beams of flame all about, crumbling pristine architecture. Lucifer’s foremost thought is keeping Belial safe; the second, stopping Yehoel on his path to destruction; and third, the waiting anger the council will rain down on them for all this damage.

A thousand eyes lock on him at once. Lucifer waits for a breath, then dodges the predictable beam shot his way. Yehoel’s battlefield skills are rudimentary. He is driven by a desire to kill. He is driven by a lack of understanding, of fear.

Lucifer is not sure what he has to be afraid of.

He moves left, and the fire follows him. Curtains are set ablaze. Pillars continue to crack, threatening to give as their support vanishes, bit-by-bit. He parries a blow with his sword and sends it sailing into the ceiling. The entire room gives an ominous rumble.

“We don’t have time for this, Lucifer!” Belial snaps, bringing his own wings to bear. He becomes a dangerous new target for Yehoel to shoot at. He is certainly as fast as Lucifer, but he flaunts his speed. He darts this way and that, inviting more destruction, but scattering whatever thought process Yehoel has. The angel’s beams become more frantic and his rings spin in a lopsided pattern.

Belial moves where he does not; in this way, they find their synchronicity. And in this way, Lucifer manages to fly close, watching those many eyes widen as his sword drives through the flaming core--

\-- disintegrating the angel’s form in one fell swoop. The core tumbles from its suspended weight. Fragments of the red sphere dance across the floor, which gives way.

Half the room gives up its existence and crumbles towards the abyss. Lucifer alights furiously, snatching Yehoel’s damaged core out of the air before it can follow.

Belial pockets his hands, eyes sweeping and taking stock of every inch of damage. He will be the one to write the report; he says so in a glance, and Lucifer thanks him wordlessly, shutting his eyes, bringing Yehoel close. He merges the core back inside of him for the time being.

“Your boy sure knows how to make an entrance,” says Belial, clapping Lucifer on the shoulder. They land on the floor that remains, though even it creaks beneath them. It will soon crumble, too.

“I do not understand,” Lucifer mumbles, “What went wrong.”

“He was afraid.”

Lucifer knows that. “But why?”

“Weren’t you afraid when you opened your eyes for the first time?” Belial meets Lucifer’s puzzled stare and sighs. “No, a being like you wouldn’t know the first thing about fear.”

“No, I do…”

“Do you?”

“... when his core was about to fall,” reflects Lucifer, as if it happened centuries ago and not seconds, “I felt so dearly that my life was about to end.”

“Wow. You’re a real mother hen!”

“Please do not compare me to a bird,” Lucifer sighs, and the two of them disperse, each off to take care of his side of damage control.

Lucilius, predictably, is not pleased. The council is even less pleased. Their reasons could not be more different, but.

“Try again,” orders Lucilius with a jab of his quill into its inkwell. “And this time, configure his passivity and disable his weaponry before you summon him.”

Lucifer nods but is otherwise silent. Lucilius looks over at him, pen hovering over the page. Something in his gaze grows soft.

“Lucifer.”

“Yes, my friend?”

“How do you feel?”

“... quite tender, I think.”

Lucilius answers, “Good,” and turns back to his report. In a darker tone of voice, he repeats, “Good.”

Lucifer does not understand. He only knows that he must try again.

* * *

Perfection begets perfection. Lucifer has cultivated the most beautiful garden in all of Canaan. It is the envy of the angels who are always on missions, flitting this way and that. He does not understand their jealousy, but Lucilius tells him to appreciate it, and that is what he does. If this is the most perfect garden in creation, then, surely,

Surely, it will prove the perfect nursery for Yehoel.

Michael steps daintily into the garden despite her strong posture. She bends down next to him and beholds the cocoon he has placed in a bed of flowers, the petals of the Angel’s trumpets tickling the white feathers. After a look shared with Lucifer, she, too, presses her hand to the cocoon.

“It’s warm,” she remarks. Even for her, the Primarch of Fire, Yehoel’s core resonates with a mighty heat. Lucifer is surprised to find he is not surprised at all.

“Yes. That is Yehoel. He is growing, and learning,” says Lucifer, more hope than fact.

Michael seems to sense the distress beating in his pulse. She is not like Gabriel, who reads the room like a glittering stream, but she is his trusted friend. To some extent, she understands him. “Have you visited the skydwellers of late?”

Lucifer turns to her, nodding, “Of course. I do so whenever possible.”

“So you’ve seen the women and the roundness of their stomachs?”

“The children they grow in their bellies. Yes, I have.”

Smiling, Michael touches his arm. “They host a living being in themselves for nine months. For them, it is an eternity. Yet for us, it is the blink of an eye.” After a pause, she adds, “How long do you expect to nurse him here?”

Lucifer… has not thought that far. He only knows he will come to check every day and see if Yehoel has changed in any way. “Years, perhaps.”

“And do you know of the cherubs that hoist Gabriel’s ribbons?” Michael continues.

“Yes…”

“She coddled them in their cocoons, one by one,” says Michael, smiling fondly at the memory for which Lucifer was absent. “For years at a time. And when they emerged, she was like a skydweller herself, holding each to her breast. I think that is why they love her so.”

This is when Lucifer turns and looks at Michael fully. “They love her because she has given them purpose,” he says.

But Michael shakes her head. “She has given them purpose, and she has given them love. That is why they are happy enough to hold her ribbons and float beside her. Have you given love to Yehoel, Supreme Primarch?”

He cannot say. He turns back to the cocoon and touches it. Michael’s hand falls away from his arm. The warmth is there, steady, and-- waiting.

“How does one show love to an imperfect being?” Lucifer asks.

“Speak to him. Spend time near him. Let him feel your presence.” Michael raises to her feet, and when Lucifer glances at her, she nearly looks amused. “I will call on the others to pay their visits. Uriel, Raphael, Gabriel-- Belial, as well. We should all show Yehoel a bit of love.”

They all know of the destruction he caused a year prior. And yet Lucifer knows, without asking, that all of the primarchs would be willing to do just as Michael has suggested. He is silent, and then he nods.

“Please.” And she departs the garden on his note of want.

Perfection has created an imperfect being. Lucifer had long considered it his own failure. However, they have time.

He wonders if one can grow perfection.

* * *

Little Yehoel has removed the face from one of the council’s statues.

Halluel and Malluel are the bearers of the bad news. They flit about him with concern, the same way they tangle their legs together to form a floating couple. They are worried, they are whimsical, they are giggling and their voices are strained. Their mixed emotions are how they were designed; in that way, they are perfect.

Yehoel is decidedly not perfect. He does not look proud of himself for destroying the face of astral virtue. He does not look ashamed, either. His brown eyes are dead, looking at something far away from Halluel, Malluel, and even Lucifer.

What could he be contemplating?

“Yehoel,” Lucifer begins, stooping to Yehoel’s height. He folds his wings so his figure is less imposing. Yet, only when he touches a finger under Yehoel’s chin does the beast look at him. “Do you know what you have done?”

No answer.

“Nothing good, that’s for sure,” Halluel remarks, disentangling herself from Malluel to stroke the defaced statue. “If we had dominion over time, we could fix this-- or earth, even. Supreme Primarch, would you like us to call for Uriel?”

“There is no need,” answers Lucifer, holding up a hand. Malluel is the one who comes close, perching on her toes as she squeezes in close next to Lucifer. She smiles brightly at Yehoel, though Yehoel doesn’t see her. “This is my burden to bear.”

Something tightens in Yehoel’s expression when he says that. The young beast squeezes his hand into a fist.

“Do you think he understands language?” Malluel wonders. She pokes at Yehoel’s little chubby cheeks.

“Both Lucilius and I made sure his core was functioning properly. The levels should be adjusted as well. We made sure he would both passive and inquisitive, ready to learn.”

“And what do you think he’s learned from this?” Halluel says. She hazards, “At the very least, the punishment is going to teach him a thing or two.”

“This is _my_ burden.” Malluel goes back to join Halluel, now disinterested. Lucifer reaffirms, “I will take the punishment for this error.”

“He won’t grow that way, you know,” Malluel protests.

The tension in Yehoel is so tight, he looks like he might snap at any moment. Lucifer’s brow creases in worry. There is no way this beast could bear any more strain than he already has.

“It must be a malfunction,” he says slowly, uncertainly. It’s a phrase Lucilius would use, though he’s not sure this is the time or the place for it. He doesn’t know what else to do. “I’ll consult our maker after the council has meted out my punishment. Halluel, Malluel. Would you please report this, and contact Lucilius?”

Halluel, looking up from the flirtatious way Malluel grips her thigh, hesitates. “You know…”

Malluel choruses, “You _know_ …”

“What?” Lucifer says.

“... we don’t _have_ to tell them,” suggests Halluel. “We could just say it was an accident. Yes, yes, I know they take stock of these things every year, but why not blame it on something else?”

“The maker’s experiments are always rocking the foundation of Canaan,” Malluel notes with a mischievous sort of voice. “These things happen, sometimes!”

Lucifer is not sure whether to be appalled or intrigued by their proposal. They are as one. They giggle, touching each other in provocative ways. He looks at Yehoel, frightened to touch him. He does not want him to break. A punishment will… a punishment will take him away from the beast, during which these adverse effects might heighten in severity…

“I would… appreciate it,” Lucifer says awkwardly, and both the girls burst into appreciative laughter. Halluel comes over to brush his arm. Malluel nuzzles his cheek.

“Leave it to us, Supreme Primarch. The next earthquake, everyone will find out about this ‘terrible accident.’” Halluel winks, and both she and her partner fly off.

He should not be promoting cunning; that’s Belial’s job. However, Lucifer cannot deny some of the tension leaking from his shoulders when the truth is sealed. He looks up, once, at the faceless statue. It was unremarkable in every way, until now. Now, it stands out.

Against his better judgement, he takes Yehoel into his arms. He is warm.

“I shall bring you to Lucilius, and we will take a look at your core.” Lucifer is not sure why he says it. It comforts neither him nor the beast in his arms. But he has to do something, even if it means absolutely nothing.

* * *

“Can he see?”

“Does he have eyes, Lucifer?”

“... I believe so.”

“You have answered your own question.”

Lucilius is remarkably prickly today. Lucifer is not sure what’s got him in such a twist. He is much more concerned with the core floating beneath the glass jar, rather like an upturned wine glass, beneath which Yehoel floats.

Now and again he bashes himself against the glass rebelliously. For the most part, he watches, his two gold rings spin and blink at his surroundings.

“Do you believe he can perceive the lab?”

Lucilius slams his book shut. “He has been whole in this place before, Lucifer. Even if he were blind, he would know exactly where he was. A beast can feel out its location. You are well aware that you have more faculties than just your eyes to use.”

The lecture doesn’t sting. It just makes him stand up straight. Belial, who is lounging in a chair nearby, is biting his lip to keep from laughing. He’s got his head tucked onto his forearms, the chair twirled backwards, for some reason or another. If he makes a sound, he will invoke a more terrible wrath from Lucilius.

Taking a deep breath, their maker pinches the bridge of his nose. “You are the most perfect being I have ever created. Creation should not be this _difficult_ for you.” Under his breath, he mutters something about the thing’s purpose, but Lucifer fails to catch it. (Maybe he tells himself not to hear it.)

“I have a suggestion,” Belial says, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender as soon as Lucilius looks at him. The look must be especially cold; even _he_ looks on edge. “Cil. You didn’t nurse us in a garden or in a glass jar, right?”

“I did not nurse you at _all,_ ” spits Lucilius. “I spent many years on your designs. When you were put together, you emerged just as I predicted you would.” He frowns at the both of them. “I know you recall the very moment you were born.”

“Crystal clear.” Belial grins. “And how about the other primarchs? Or the little beasts you make?”

“Each beast has its own criteria for birth,” Lucilius snaps. “You cannot expect me to list off…” But his words find no purchase, sliding down into the abyss of silence. His cold glare grows contemplative. Belial gazes at him affectionately.

“You see what I’m getting at?”

Lucilius shakes his head. “Does _Lucifer_? Make yourself clear. You are utterly useless as an adjutant.”

“Tough love as always.” Belial sighs and rises from his chair. He approaches Lucifer-- less Lucifer, though, and moreso Yehoel. As if he has heard every word, Yehoel beats himself against the glass with every passing beat. “Lucifer.”

“Belial.”

“You and I were never kids. But you remember your first few years as a primal, right?”

“I do,” answers Lucifer, brows coming together. “It was not especially eventful.”

Belial laughs. “You say that, but I had to teach you how to fly! Your wings were too big for your tiny body!”

“Belial,” echoes Lucilius warningly.

“It’s the truth, Cil. Relax. Or don’t. I like every look on you. But here’s the deal, Lucifer: you can’t expect Yehoel to be okay with just anything. He didn’t like the nursery. He didn’t like being left alone. He _definitely_ didn’t like being released without so much as an explanation. So.”

“... so?” Lucifer prompts, a touch curiously.

Rolling his eyes, Belial beseeches the unseen heavens for patience. He’s quite dramatic about it. Lucilius touches his heel to Belial’s shin as a second warning. “So. Take him out, _talk to him_ , and actually spend time with him. Don’t bring him into battle or anything, but stop staring at him like he’s a monster. Give him some fatherly love.”

When Lucifer turns to Lucilius, he has a hand at his chin. “The idea… is not without merit.” He glances at Lucifer, not the tinkling jar. “Uncapsulate him, Lucifer, and watch over him. Speak to him. Report the results to me in a week’s time, or sooner, in case of another error.”

“Think ‘baby,’” Belial encourages, which is not helpful at all.

Lucifer looks again at Yehoel, and Yehoel looks at him. His many brown eyes are wide. They are waiting. “I shall try. I cannot promise anything. He is too chaotic.”

Lucilius hmphs and returns to his desk. “If he becomes too much of a pest we will get rid of him. We should’ve done so ages ago.” But Lucifer is attached to his first creation, and whenever he shows any signs of it, Lucilius gets huffy. Belial offers their maker a pat on the back and gets kicked for real. He yelps.

Taking the jar in his hand, Lucifer tries to hold Yehoel as a father would hold his son. It’s a poor imitation -- but it’s a start.

* * *

When Gabriel finds them, she cannot help but laugh dearly at the sight of Yehoel’s blustery hair. “My, my! What happened here?”

Lucifer sets Yehoel down. He gives a shake, brown feathers and strands of hair escaping into the hall. “I took him out into the winds of Canaan. His first flight.” His core swells at the very memory. Gabriel, too, wears a great big smile, touching Yehoel softly on the crown of his head.

“Did you really? Oh, Yeye. Were you scared?”

Yehoel resolutely shakes his head. Words are still beyond him, but he’s grown obedient; interested; curious. He’s losing his down feathers and his brown plumage is coming in wonderfully. Sometimes, he buries himself in the fallen leaves of the garden and falls asleep there.

“You didn’t take him to the stronger currents, did you?” Gabriel’s asking. Lucifer’s head snaps up to her.

“No, only the small gales beneath the island. He did very well. He supported himself without my help.”

Gabriel giggles in her own gentle way. “Why, this calls for a celebration. What do you think, Yeye? Would you like that?”

Yehoel doesn’t nod or shake his head, but his eyes get big with curiosity.

“Then it’s decided! I’ll go talk to Mika and see what we can do. Don’t get too impatient, Yeye!” Gabriel says, parting like a breath taken from the lungs.

They are left in silence. Lucifer tries to fix Yehoel’s hair, but Yehoel swats his hand away. He will only accept it when Lucifer holds it out, and five tiny fingers fold into his own.

“Shall we return to the gardens?” Lucifer says, and he gets a big nod in answer. They traipse through the halls. Yehoel walks proud, his head held high. The emotion it fills him with is beyond words. Yehoel is growing… and it is because Lucifer is beside him.

Yehoel buries himself in the fallen leaves again, and Lucifer drinks tea, watching him from afar. Lucilius must have wanted him to know this feeling.

* * *

With a century past, the primals come to accept that Yehoel will never utter a word. He is sentient, he is a companion among them all the same, but he simply does not speak. He is like Sariel, but with less energy and more, all at once.

Expectations fall around him like barriers. It’s just as it was when he was born. The more Yehoel brushes against the walls, the more he longs to break them.

He is met with such a barrier on another day in the gardens. It’s the simple act of Lucifer serving tea for himself, and _only_ for himself. He looks upon Yehoel with unbridled affection, but he never gives a thought to Yehoel’s interest, Yehoel’s thirst.

He is startled when Yehoel seats himself across the table.

“What is wrong, my friend?” Lucifer encourages in soft tones. Yehoel hates that, too.

He stomps his heels and unfurls his wings, pointing at Lucifer’s cup. Brown feathers scatter across the table. He glares to signal his desire.

“... ah…”

And like that, the distant sound of a barrier shattered. Lucifer rises from his seat, and presently he returns with a second steaming cup. He’s reluctant when he places it in front of the young primal.

“It’s hot,” he warns. But Yehoel is burning heat. He can handle it.

He burns his tongue, and he sheds stubborn tears, and Lucifer is glad to hold him that day.

* * *

And once upon a while, the expectations are shattered without conscious thought. When the cherubs begin to play their harps in accord for Gabriel, Yehoel finds his feet moving, twirling in graceful steps around the white marble room. When she is manifested, the music does not halt-- rather, Gabriel signals for it to continue. The cherubs pluck with greater speed, and Yehoel begins to spin. His heels clack on the floor.

Gabriel offers him a hand, and then they are dancing. He flows with her like he is the water and she is the current. She glides and he follows. Where he lacks the height to support her, they open their wings and take flight, their feet lifting off the floor just enough to bring them to eye-level.

When the plucking takes a slower turn, he sways with the primarch of water. She is happy, and it radiates through every bit of her. “You can dance,” she observes. Yehoel nods. She continues, “You love to dance?” And he nods again. His agreement, which is as natural as anything else, shatters one more wall that stood in between them. She laughs and tugs him as close as they’ll come, and they spend many hours in the chorus of the cherubs, spinning together until the world loses its balance.

* * *

Yet sometimes surmounting the expectations are not so simple. No one expects Yehoel to do anything. No one has sought fit to give Yehoel a purpose. No amount of stomping his feet and wild gesturing can accomplish the task, and Yehoel firmly refuses to write. He speaks with the movements of the divine.

The thought plagues him every time Lucifer smiles. What can he do? How can he reach purpose? Everything itches and it aches. He hates the bonds. He hates being imperfect. He hates _being_ , whether it be in a glass jar or with two feet on the ground, two wings propelling him across the winds of Canaan.

There comes a day where Lucifer cannot be with him. These days are many, now that he does not set fire to everything in his path. Halluel and Malluel have come to visit him, flirting and floating as close as they can get, _touching_ and _pushing_ on skin he doesn’t want to have.

“Yeye, come look at this flower!”

“Yeye, did you know Uriel’s formed mountains on a new island?”

They chatter and they chatter. They try to fill his head with useless knowledge. Perhaps, they think, if they can talk enough, they will inspire him to become a primal with value. Perhaps ignorance is his flaw. Perhaps he is simply too stupid, too angry, too impatient.

Or better yet? They are _wrong_.

Yehoel sets fire to the next iris Malluel brings him. She springs back with a yelp, Halluel instantly shielding her. The two of them ready for Yehoel to go crazy again.

But instead, he laughs. And he laughs. And when their weariness turns into concern, he keeps laughing, planting a hand on the nearby trellis to support himself.

“Yeye?” Malluel asks tentatively, reaching out for him.

He takes her hand, and his touch blazes. He is no fire but the medium between warmth and ice.

“Yehoel,” he says softly, “Is not my name.”

* * *

_How strange_ , they say, _for a beast to refuse his master’s name_.

But Lucifer is not his master. He is a beast without a name. Every time another primal addresses him as _Yeye_ or _Yehoel,_ he snaps at them. (No astral has ever paid attention to him. They gloss over him when he is in the room. It’s like they don’t even see him. And yet, with his thousand thousand eyes, his burning circles, he sees everything.) He, the primal without a purpose or a name, has a want. He has a want and that want is to be seen.

“Yeye,” Belial teases, tapping him on the nose, “Needs always come with a price.” He darts away on black wings before he can be slapped.

The wanting primal scowls at him. “It’s not a need. It’s a desire. If you have a desire, you make it reality. That’s what Lucilius is always saying.”

“That applies to Cil,” says Belial with a patient shake of his head, “Not us primals. And certainly not you. You _do_ know how low on the totem pole you are, right?”

“I don’t care.”

Belial laughs. “Bold words!” He’s been bothering him more and more lately, and he thinks he might shoot the primarch down, once and for all. Just as the burn is manifesting in his hands,

A wave of order passes through the air, and Lucifer materialises. Belial looks at him with two parts disappointment, three parts disgust. By the time Lucifer lays eyes on him, however, Belial’s schooled his expression.

“Time for me to go,” the cunning primal sighs, vanishing himself before the wanting primal can deal with him. And then, in the garden, they are two.

“Yehoel--”

“Is not my name,” he answers, the same way he’s said it a million times. But now, finally, Lucifer is here. How long has he been waiting? How _long_? He’s lost track of the years. The wanting primal takes a step forward, meeting Lucifer’s quiet expression head-on. “That’s the name you gave to the perfect specimen you wanted to create. But guess what? I’m not perfect. I’m the furthest thing from it. I don’t even have a purpose. And I’m not about to let you decide who I’m going to be.”

The words he’s pent up come spilling out. They make a dent-- Lucifer looks troubled. But his voice is calm when he speaks. The wanting primal rages inside. _Get angry! Fight me! Smite me!_ But his wants remain unanswered, as always. “Then,” Lucifer says, “What shall I call you? You must have a name, even if it is not the one I gave you.”

 _… you’re not supposed to understand_. And in a gaping way, Lucifer does not. He’s like the wind, picking up whatever floats on by. The wanting primal’s shoulders sag. Presently, he draws himself up straight, waiting for the judgement he needs and doesn’t want.

“I want,” he begins firmly, “To be called… Sandalphon.”

“Sandalphon,” repeats Lucifer, trying out the syllables on his tongue. He hates the way it makes his core jump to hear it. “Why this name?”

Because it sounds right. Because it’s his. Because no one has strung those sounds together before, and because he wants it to be, so it’s his. It’s an imperfect desire for an imperfect primal. There is no better fit.

Though, something in him -- in Sandalphon -- wants to please Lucifer. It wants him to understand. It’s that burning that’s always inside him, a towering inferno that simply says, _please understand me._ He is a primal of want: he wants to be known and seen.

A primal of simple wishes directed to the maker.

“I feel the earth within me,” he says. Lucifer appears transfixed by his voice. “But I am not the earth. I feel the warmth of fire, the current of water, the breath of the air, but I am not these things. Lucifer -- my lord -- I am the music, I am the prayers, I am the revolt against expectations.

“... please.”

He has nothing to prove. He has everything to lose.

When he lowers his head, expression troubled, Lucifer sets a hand on his shoulder.

“Sandalphon,” his maker repeats, this time in agreement. “You will be Sandalphon. You may take whatever name pleases you. You are… the name you bear will not change you, nor the love we have for you.”

Sandalphon looks up at him, and Lucifer isn’t really seeing him. He doesn’t understand. A perfect being wouldn’t know the first thing about being imperfect.

But he smiles anyway, the first smile he’s worn in years, painful and cracking at the edges because. It’s what he wants in this half-hearted, plastic kind of way.

“Thank you,” he says, as Lucifer gathers his wings around to embrace him.

* * *

Six wings, ripped from his body and discarded,

Given to Yehoel, not Sandalphon, the intended replacement of the supreme primarch.

Power at his fingertips. A head in his grasp. Fury given form when he begins to scream, and he does not stop.

* * *

Six wings, four given by the elements, two of his own, to topple the greatest foe the sky has ever known.

Yehoel cared nothing for the sky.

Sandalphon cares for it, for Lucifer’s memory, for the trust placed in him. He is the air and earth and music and water and fire and desire and unrequited love whispered in the cracks of existence. He is Sandalphon. He is Sandalphon. He is defiance.

He is a blade borne against the ultimate creator. He is a murder of crows unto himself and he is a murderer.

He slaughters the End of the World and abandons Eden with a hand reaching out to him. An imperfect being can never begin to understand the thoughts of a perfect being,

But perhaps Lucifer can learn, now, the weight of the waiting and the unrequitance.

* * *

“I heard, once,” Lucio addresses him on a breezy day, “That you had a different name when you were born.”

Sandalphon keeps his back turned, pinning up laundry with stone-cold efficiency. “Did you now.”

“A bird told me,” Lucio resumes-- his voice gets louder, meaning he’s turned towards Sandalphon, “That once, you didn’t know what you were supposed to embody.”

His back grows stiff. His fingers tighten on the pins. What would Lucio know of--

“The desire to please and to escape,” murmurs Lucio, “When the master’s words are not enough-- is not a foreign feeling.”

He whips around to find a peacefully smiling face. It makes him sick. “What does that even mean?”

Lucio grins and says, “I have no idea. I heard it from a bird. I thought you might like to hear it.”

 _You are not alone_. An attempt to bridge the gap.

Sandalphon scowls and drops all of his tension in a heavy sigh, retreating to a further corner of the starboard.

Lucio watches him in that same fond, wanting way with which Adam had once beheld Eve.

* * *

“Welcome home,” Jegudiel says. There is no answer, because there is no mouth to reply to him. He wraps his tired arms around Eve, wings furling around the both of them. Blue flame licks at his skin but he pays no attention. This is the man he loves. “I missed you.”

The head of blue flame buries into his shoulder. He laughs softly.

Eve -- Lucilius -- will burn out soon, ashes and shards of ichor that he will slowly put back together. That is the purpose of Jegudiel. But the purpose of Belial is much different, see.

Jegudiel puts Eden back together.

Belial tears it all down and loves every fragment of Eve-Lucilius-Eve he comes across.

“Cil, Cilius, Lucilius,” he says like a prayer, and the burning arms embrace him in quiet supplication.

They lay together on an invisible floor, stars swirling around them. Belial points out upside-down constellations while Lucilius slowly extinguishes in his arms.

“I love you,” he says proudly. “Every bit of you.”

Lucilius places a palm on his bare chest, long enough that it brands Belial and leaves a mark. It’s painful but he laughs.

The heavens themselves could not change who they are now, the most stubborn monsters since the serpent in the garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jegudiel presides over labour and Friday. He wields a whip.  
> Eve is the mother of human creation in many Jewish, Islamic, and Christian mythos.  
> Yehoel (Joel) is the angel of mediation and fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary adapted from works by Christine Love.


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